


Don’t Forget to Breathe

by cywscross



Series: Tumblr Prompts 2016 [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Codependency, Gen, Hurt Peter, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped Peter, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Post Hale Fire, Pre-Season/Series 01, Wolf Peter, Young Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6454288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fire destroys every last reason Peter has to continue living. Stiles gives him a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Не забывай дышать (Don’t Forget to Breathe)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7915783) by [Sulamen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulamen/pseuds/Sulamen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Anonymous said: Kidnapped!Peter and/or Stiles?_
> 
> No romantic Steter here, unless you’d like to see this as preslash spanning back years. Idk if this was what you wanted but it’s where this idea took me.

 

The last things Peter smells before he loses consciousness are the fire and smoke, cooked flesh and blood, and the perfume that always lingered on Derek’s clothes and skin.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes again, well, he doesn’t really wake.  He drifts in and out, agony coursing through every last molecule of his burnt body, and even worse agony in the terrible void left by the loss of his Pack.

He’s grateful whenever darkness drags him under completely.

 

* * *

 

As minutes, hours, days pass by in feverish, delirious, searing flashes of pain, he thinks he hears someone saying over and over, “Please don’t die, please don’t die.  Don’t die, Mr. Hale.  Please don’t die.”

He doesn’t know why anyone would be saying that.  He doesn’t know much of anything these days except the never-ending sensation of being burned alive.

 

* * *

 

He wakes again, and for the first time in what seems like an eternity, he feels something cold and wet press against his skin, never in the same place for long, but each time whatever it is touches his burns, like the soothing glide of an icepack on a blistering summer day, he gets a moment of relief from the hell he’s found himself in.

He goes under again.

 

* * *

 

He wakes again.  The haze in his mind parts enough for him to recognize the damp washcloth sponging his face.  It doesn’t give him as much relief as before but he figures that’s just because he’s more cognizant this time and he’s gotten used to the moisture.

A pity.

He blacks out again to the fervent litany of “Please don’t die.  Please don’t die.  Please don’t die.” chanting in his ears.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in-between, he reaches for the last two pack bonds that he knows should be there because Laura and Derek weren’t home when their family burned.  But the bonds are dim and flickering at the back of his mind, and when he tugs on them with a desperation that he would normally be ashamed of, they splinter into irreparable pieces under his grasp, leaving him behind.

His wolf howls at the betrayal, howls into the void in their very soul, but it changes nothing.

 

* * *

 

He wakes again, and this time, he _stays_ awake for more than a few foggy seconds of the pseudo-clarity he’s had so far.  His first cognizant thought is, _the ground is hard._

Well no, his first cognizant thought is, _everything hurts_ , but that’s a given.  And his second thought is, _the fire_ , but that’s also a given, along with the heart-wrenching _riptide_ of remembered terror now weighted down by the hollow pang of empty agony inside him where his pack bonds should be.

His third thought is, _Laura and Derek cut me from the pack_ , and at least for now, he can’t muster up enough energy for anything more than a numb sort of grief mixed with disbelief because no matter how badly they got along sometimes, he didn’t think his niece and nephew – the former who is now supposed to be his _Alpha_ – would discard him like last week’s trash.

But it happened.  He can sense that they’re still alive but that’s it.  They are no longer Pack.

He doesn’t know how to react to that.  Not right now.

So for technicality’s sake, he supposes it’s more accurate to say that it’s not until his _fourth_ thought that he thinks, _the ground is hard_ , and it takes him a long moment to realize what is wrong with that particular revelation.

Why is he on the ground at all?  If he’s alive, he would have been taken to the hospital, not-

He opens his eyes.

Everything is dark, but not so dark that he can’t make out the low stone ceiling and the wall he’s lying parallel to and the cobwebs in the corner above.

Not so dark either that he can’t make out the boy slumped against the wall beside his head, face bruised and smudged with dirt and dried blood, wearing a grungy-looking red sweater, and sleeping restlessly.

What the fuck is going on?

He tries to move.  Keyword being ‘tries’.  He fails miserably, partly because the attempt sends even more pain rippling through his body like a scorching heatwave, and partly because he literally almost can’t move at all, muscles paralyzed save for a few throbbing twitches here and there and his eyeballs.  When he tries to speak, his voice comes out in a hoarse, throat-tearing wheeze.

But the small sound is enough to jolt the boy awake like flipping a light switch because one moment the kid is conked out with his neck angled in a way that he will definitely regret upon waking, and the next, his eyes are open and wild and terrified even as he automatically scrambles to cover Peter with his body, crouching like a wolf guarding its pup, the lingering disorientation dissipating in seconds as his gaze zeroes in on the far side of the room.

For a minute, only the sound of shallow breathing, the drip of a leaking pipe, and the scuttle of something moving – a cockroach maybe; seems to fit with the general atmosphere – somewhere beyond Peter’s feet can be heard.

And then the boy pulls back, warily bewildered for all of five seconds before he looks down and sees Peter staring back at him.

He yelps and falls back, not quite out of Peter’s line of sight, but then he’s right back at Peter’s side again, hands hovering uncertainly in the space above Peter.

“M- Mr. Hale?”  The boy ventures shakily, and this close, Peter can see the bags under the kid’s eyes, how pale he is in the darkness, how prominent his cheekbones are in that thin face.  “Are you- Are you awake?  Can you understand me?”

The words hold the ring of repetition, of having been said before, over and over as Peter teetered on the brink of death.  He tries to nod now, barely managing a jerk of his head that _hurts_ , but it’s enough if the way the boy’s expression practically crumples with relief is anything to go by.

And then he tears up but Peter doesn’t even have time to worry before the boy is scrubbing a sleeve – that has certainly seen better days – over his eyes, leaving another smear of dirt across his forehead, and he doesn’t cry.  His face looks like someone’s backhanded him more than once, and he has a split lip, but it looks chewed on too, like he’s been biting back tears for- for however long they’ve been here, wherever here is.

Peter has a million questions he wants to ask and none of the means to ask them.  Luckily, the boy starts rambling in hushed, almost maniacal tones before he has to figure out a way.

“I- There was a fire at your house and- and there were people with guns standing by the trees _watching_ and _laughing_ and you were _on fire_ Mr. Hale and people were screaming inside the house I could hear them and then you dragged Cora out from one of the windows and the people with guns didn’t like that- I mean I don’t think they saw Cora get out but they saw you break the window and they started- started running towards you so I grabbed Cora and I made her hide in some bushes and I told her to stay there and not come out until- until it was safe but then one of those people threw something in your face and they saw me too and they hit me with a gun-”

The torrent of words come to an abrupt halt as he stops to breathe, and one of his hands comes up to touch the side of his head.  Now that Peter is looking for it, he can see the blood clumping some of the short hair together, and his gut twists with rage and disgust both.

Hunters.  God.  The pieces put themselves together from there.  That goddamn perfume, on Derek, in the _house_ , in the goddamn basement and around the blocked off tunnel to what would’ve been safety.  Derek sneaking around and acting suspicious enough that Peter was contemplating confronting his nephew about it, but after _Paige_ , he was… reluctant to pry again.

Damn it.  He _should’ve_ done it anyway, should’ve torn Derek’s private life to pieces because that brat’s never made a single good decision for himself in his entire life, and Peter should’ve found out who that girlfriend was no matter how much Talia threatened him to mind his own business.

And now those hunters have nabbed some kid because he had the misfortune to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.  At least Cora might have gotten away, thank God, but…

“’ere?”  He manages to croak.

The boy frowns in confusion for a moment before his expression clears.  “Oh we’re- well I’m not actually sure.  I think it’s a basement or something.  There’s- There’s nothing in here except what they give us.  They- They come about once a day, I think, with a bit of food and some water, so going by that, we’ve been here about- about two weeks.  They- They threw a first-aid kit in here the first day too but that’s it.”  His nose wrinkles.  “There’s a bucket in the corner for…”

He trails off, waving a hand presumably in the bucket’s direction with an air of embarrassment.  Peter gets it.

“’oo?”  He coughs out next.  The boy frowns again but not like he doesn’t understand.  He disappears for a moment, which sends prickles of anxiety skittering through Peter's stomach.  But the kid comes back soon enough, with a half-empty water bottle in one hand.  His other slips under Peter’s head, a child’s palm supporting the back of Peter’s neck in a way that – for whatever reason – doesn’t make his wolf snarl, and with painstaking care, he helps Peter tilt his head up just enough to swallow some of the water.

He doesn’t realize that he should probably limit how much he drinks until after he’s finished greedily guzzling down his fill of the liquid.  There’s a metallic tang to it, and it’s not cold at all, but it’s still heaven on his raw, parched throat.

There’s only a thumb’s width left when the boy sets the bottle aside but he only has time to consider an apology before the boy is speaking again.

“Um, I’m- I’m Stiles, Mr. Hale,” The boy tells him, fiddling with the hem of his sweater, brow creased again but with something nervous instead.  “Stiles Stilinski?  Cora’s friend?  I was- She invited me to dinner with your family.  She said that her mom was okay with it.  That’s- That’s why I was there that night.”

Peter stares.  Oh.  Oh God.  No fucking wonder the hunters haven’t killed them yet.

They kidnapped the fucking Sheriff’s son, probably didn’t know who he was until they grabbed him, might even have thought he was another Hale who managed to escape, and then they must have realized how wrong they were but it was too late.  They couldn’t return him because Stiles saw everything, saw their faces, could connect the dots between them and the fire, could ID them to his father in a heartbeat.  But they couldn’t quite go ahead and kill him either because it’s one thing to have a live hostage and the entire Beacon Hills police department on their asses, it’s another thing entirely to have a _dead son of the Sheriff_ and the entire Beacon Hills police department on their asses.

And they… well, they _could_ kill Peter.  But with Stiles mysteriously disappearing on his way to the Hale house, and then the house going up in flames, the case will be gone over with a fine-toothed comb, and they’ll realize that neither Stiles nor Peter are amongst the dead.  It won’t be dismissed as a mere accident, which is probably what the hunters were hoping for when they decided to torch Peter’s Pack, and – worse comes to worst and they get caught – being able to produce _two_ living victims would look better than producing a couple bodies.

Not by much but they might not get death row if they plead guilty and feign remorse.  Or maybe they have something else entirely in store for Peter.  But so long as he’s not dead, and Stiles too, the hunters will have more options available to them than if the two of them were dead.

Dead like Peter’s family.

He can’t breathe for a moment, rage and grief warring for dominance.  With difficulty, he shunts both to the back of his mind again.  He can’t afford to lose his head right now.

Christ, there’s a ten-year-old kid locked in some dingy basement with him, and by the looks of it, said kid has been taking care of Peter to the best of his ability, which, what?  Most children would be in hysterics and sobbing in a corner and calling for their parents by now.  But Stiles…

Peter tries to lift his head again, and Stiles spots it instantly.

“You shouldn’t move,” The boy cautions, but he cradles Peter’s head again anyway and slowly helps him to a halfway sitting position, back against cool stone, leaning against Stiles for support, and he gets his first good look at everything.

His body is a mess.  He’s not wearing a shirt, and he’s in his boxers, although even that’s practically in tatters and he doesn’t even want to think about how dirty they are.  There are burns gouged into his flesh, some of it blackened like overcooked meat, although the worst of it are hidden under bandages.  He almost gags anyway.

The room they’re in isn’t particularly big but it isn’t too cramped either, although it could certainly use some spring cleaning.  Stiles would probably be able to stand up straight while Peter would have to stoop, but there’s a bit of room to stretch their legs (if Peter was capable of it, which he definitely isn’t).  There are no windows but there’s a tiny sliver of light coming from underneath the only door on the far side of the room.  The walls are made of stone.  Peter’s pretty sure they’re in a bunker of some sort, not just a basement.  Underground, most likely.

He takes a deliberate sniff and winces.  Aside from his own wounds, and the fact that they both really stink, he can smell the waste bucket, although Stiles has placed that away from them as far as possible.  There’s a tray of food nearby, with the remains of some stale-looking bread.  The bottle Peter drank from is what’s left of their water.

There’s also a _lot_ of bloodied bandages piled up several feet away.

“I have more water here,” Stiles says, reaching out to one side and retrieving a wine bottle of all things.  Peter doesn’t need words to convey his incredulity.  Stiles ducks his head a little.  “It was supposed to be a- a gift?  I’d never been invited to a friend’s house before so I googled it, and it said it was polite to bring a gift, and my dad had a whole cabinet of these so I didn’t think he’d miss one.”

Peter stares.  Not for the first time, he gets the impression that there’s something a little off about this boy.

Most little kids probably wouldn’t even be able to _look_ at Peter right now without running screaming in the opposite direction.  Not that there’s a whole lot of room to run here, but what kind of kid runs _towards_ the fire rather than _away_ in the first place?

“Anyway,” Stiles continues obliviously.  “I had this in my bag, and they threw me in here with it, and they don’t give us a new bottle of water if we don’t finish the old one, so I dumped out the alcohol and saved as much of the water as I could every time they gave us a bottle.  I figured if they stop giving us water one day, we’d last a little longer and maybe- maybe find a way out.”

He pauses, absently sloshing the liquid inside.  It doesn’t sound like there’s a whole lot in there either, not even half the bottle full.

“Only good thing about the walls,” He mutters, sticking the bottle somewhere out of sight again.  “It was easy getting the cap off.”

He looks back at Peter, gnawing on his bottom lip, stress lining his features.  “I- You were really hurt.  You’re still really hurt.  But-” He eyes Peter with an expression Peter can’t name.  “-you’re getting better.”

It takes a long moment for Peter to guess what Stiles is hinting at.  His body’s a mess.  But even as bad as it is, it’s not as much of a mess as Peter expected considering he was literally _on fire_ when he was trying to save his Pack.  He has new smooth flesh in a few places, which means some of his burns have already healed.  Not many, and if you aren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t notice the difference, especially with all the blood that’s trickled from his injuries and dried on his skin, but Stiles has been tending to him day and night so there’s no way the boy would’ve missed it.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to survive,” Stiles babbles like he needs to fill the silence.  “I mean some of your burns were-” He shudders, and his hands curl around one of Peter’s like it’s habit.  “And I didn’t know if it was okay to use _that_ kind of alcohol to disinfect them so I-” He looks a little guilty.  “-I used a bit on the really gross-looking ones before I dumped the rest out ’cause this place is no hospital and infection’s the last thing we need and you didn’t die and then you started _healing_ -”

Peter squeezes his hands.  It’s a weak spasm of the muscles at best so he also tugs feebly at Stiles until the boy shuffles closer, blinking a bit perplexedly.  Peter tilts his head and scents him, ignoring the pain radiating from his face as he touches their temples together, breathing the boy in until he finds Stiles’ unique scent underneath all the layers of grime and blood and exhaustion and fear.

Stiles makes a confused noise but crowds close nonetheless, still careful with Peter’s injuries and snuffling into Peter’s neck like he wants to cry or maybe just really wants a hug.  The boy has no idea what he’s doing, and Peter will have to explain later, explain everything, when he can, if he can, because if there’s anyone who deserves the truth right now, it’s Stiles.  But his wolf is glad for it anyway, for the inadvertent scenting, for this closeness, for this boy, who has already proven to be braver and kinder and steadier in the face of danger than a lot of people Peter has met in his lifetime.

He still feels like his limbs have been chopped off.  And so many broken pack bonds have undoubtedly damaged his psyche, no matter how stable he feels right now, but maybe… maybe Stiles can keep him sane, even if just for a while.  Just long enough for him to heal.

And he can’t- he doesn’t know _how_ , doesn’t know if it’s even possible, but if he can, if he sees an opportunity, he’ll rip every last one of these hunters apart for what they did to his Pack, for what they’re doing now to him and Stiles, and he’ll get Stiles home if it’s the last thing he does.

 

* * *

 

Peter dozes off again, unable to keep his eyes open for long, but at least this time it’s _sleep_ instead of unconsciousness.  He misses two more times of their captors coming by before he finally catches one of them visiting with their daily tray of sustenance.

“Pretend you’re still unconscious,” Stiles whispers urgently, moving so that he’s shielding as much of Peter as his small body can from view, and it’s not like Peter _can_ move very much but he forces himself to swallow back a growl and close his eyes and even out his breathing.

The door unlocks – multiple times – and groans open.  Peter tries not to stiffen.

Nothing dramatic or violent happens.  The man who enters smells like gun oil and sweat and an edginess that suggests someone relatively new to the hunter trade.  His heartbeat gives away his unease.

He doesn’t speak, and Stiles hunkers down next to Peter without a word, although the foolish boy is still firmly planted in front of Peter, one hand wrapped around one of Peter’s wrists – the one that’s no longer burnt – like he finds comfort in it.

The hunter puts down the tray, takes the empty one, and leaves.  Peter flutters his eyes and catches a glimpse of brown hair and a tall silhouette, hunched over to avoid the ceiling.  And then he’s gone, locking the door behind him, and everything goes quiet once more.

Stiles releases the breath he’s been holding.  His fingers tremble against Peter’s skin before they let go.  Peter’s not fast enough to snag his hand before the boy retreats into himself, somehow looking even smaller when he tucks his chin in and stuffs his hands in his sweater pocket.

“’e fine,” Peter rasps out with almost more effort than he can afford to expend.  “Y’r ’ad… ’ooking.”

Stiles responds with a smile but it’s a tight one, braced over his teeth, a twitch of the mouth that doesn’t go beyond that.

“…Dad was outta town when I was heading over to your house,” Stiles mutters after a lengthy minute of contemplation.  “On a case.  So I just left a message on his phone about going over to a friend’s because he’s not supposed to pick up when he’s working.”

Peter’s mind races.  Well he did wonder why it sounded as if Stiles was walking to the Hale house by himself that evening, and now he has his answer, but does that mean nobody knew that _Cora_ was the friend who invited Stiles over?  Or maybe Cora ran straight to the station to report everything she knew, hopefully before Laura fled with her siblings in tow.  But surely Stiles has mentioned his friends before, and one phone call to the Sheriff would clear the situation up.  Or friend, Peter supposes.  Cora talks about Stiles sometimes so they’ve all heard a good deal about the boy – lost his mom two years ago, friendless until he and Cora were partnered up in class for an activity and surprisingly hit it off, smart when he can focus because he has ADHD but Cora swears her friend’s a genius, and bullied by some kids because he has a sharp tongue and a sharper mind.  Jackson Whittemore’s name was scorned in their household more than once.

But no matter how much Cora liked him, it was Stiles’ family name that ultimately got him an invite at the Hale house.  A personal in with the police department and with the Sheriff in particular could only be a good thing after all, which was why Talia gave her approval when Cora asked.  Not that she said as much to Cora of course, but Peter can read between the lines, and he’s not his sister’s enforcer for nothing.  Courting the allies that Talia couldn’t be seen with or didn’t have time for is – _was_ – part of what he does – _did_ – after all, although admittedly, they were usually at least twice Stiles’ age before he went after them.

But even if no one was looking for Stiles right away, surely they are now.  Two weeks is more than sufficient time for the hue and cry to be raised, maybe the hunters will even decide to cut their losses early and run, leaving Stiles and Peter to be found, preferably alive.

Then again, if they choose to go on the run, two extra bodies wouldn’t be that big a deal.

A shiver wracks Stiles’ thin frame, and it catches Peter’s attention.  That’s right, there’s no heating in here.  And the concrete floor  – however hard – is cool against Peter’s burns, nowhere near comfortable but at least tolerable, not to mention he’s a werewolf; his body temperature is naturally higher.  But Stiles is human, and a child.  He’s not even wearing that many layers.

“’iles,” Peter grates out gruffly.  “’m’ere.”

It takes a bit more coaxing, but eventually, Stiles does end up curled next to him, huddled as close as he dares while still being mindful of Peter’s injuries, head pillowed on Peter’s mostly scabbed over shoulder.

Stiles yawns.

“’leep,” Peter tells him.

Stiles does, and for once, Peter’s the one who stays awake and listens to him breathe.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes.  They share the bread.  They share the water.  This time, Peter is more conscious about rationing the latter, although Stiles catches on and puffs up like an indignant kitten.  Peter indulges him and takes a few more sips but no more than that, especially when Stiles proceeds to use even more water to wash Peter’s injuries.

“Save’t,” Peter croaks out.  “’ll heal.”

Stiles looks pointedly at one particularly bad burn, inflamed and scorched black, right to the bone, and even Peter blanches a little at the gruesome sight.  The bandages are filthy with dead skin and pus and other bodily fluids that Peter would prefer not to think about.  The water and a fresh cotton swab at least serve to rinse away some of that before Stiles dresses the wound again.

“We’re running out,” Stiles mumbles almost to himself as he checks the first-aid kit.

“’ll heal,” Peter repeats, meeting Stiles’ worried gaze squarely.  He may still be largely paralyzed and in constant pain, but compared to the state he would be in _without_ Stiles, he _is_ better, healing at a rate he couldn’t have hoped for were he alone.

Stiles nods reluctantly after a while, busying himself with pouring most of what’s left of the water into the liquor bottle before settling down beside Peter again.

“Mr. Hale?”  He speaks up after a few minutes.

“Pe’er.”  Peter scowls at the ceiling and says again, enunciating carefully, “My name… is Peter.”

“Peter,” Stiles echoes, and Peter thinks he hears a glimmer of a pleased smile in his voice.  “But you’re a grownup.”

Peter would snort if it wouldn’t hurt too much.  As it is, he’s thoroughly amused on the inside, and that’s certainly not something he thought he’d feel anytime soon.  “’sn’t matter.  Whazzit?”

“Mm,” Stiles tenses a little at his side.  “I wanted to know why- why those people wanted to… kill your family?”  When Peter doesn’t answer long enough for the silence to become awkward, Stiles begins squirming like he wants to pull away.  “I- Never mind.  I didn’t mean to bring it up so soon.  I-”

“Some’re jus’ like that,” Peter forces out, fingers finding the back of Stiles’ hand to let him know he wants the boy to stay.  “They hate… my kind.”

“Your kind?”  Stiles lifts his head, curiosity plain on his features.

Peter is silent for a moment longer before he flashes his eyes at Stiles.  The boy jerks back, much like the first time he realized Peter was awake and aware, but there’s no fear in his scent, at least not beyond what’s already there, on and off since he was kidnapped, and he’s soon leaning in close again, inquisitive as a newborn pup.

“Werewolf,” Peter rasps, watching Stiles’ eyes widen.  “’m a werewolf.”

 

* * *

 

“So like Nazis,” Stiles remarks pensively once Peter’s tripped through a succinct summary of werewolves and hunters.  “’cept even Nazis did it ’cause they were fighting for their Aryan philosophy.”

Peter squints at him.  He vaguely recalls Cora doing a project on World War II but he wasn’t aware schools went that in-depth so early on.  “They’re ’ready… ’eaching you… ’bou’ ’ryan ’ilosophies at y’r age?”

He spares a second to curse his clumsy tongue.  Almost every word he says comes out slurred.

Stiles flaps a dismissive hand in the air.  “No.  I got bored and wiki-binged.  And it’s not that accurate a comparison, on second thought.  It’s more like those types of hunters kill werewolves just ’cause they like killing.”

“Or th’re jus’ racis’,” Peter frowns.  “Or ’pecie’is’.  Ei’er way… ’unter Nazis.”

Stiles snickers but the sound trails off without really getting anywhere.  He doesn’t laugh much, or at all.  Peter isn’t sure if that’s due to their situation or if it’s just the way Stiles is.

He still can’t move much but his arms work enough for him to cradle Stiles’ back with one arm.  His muscles cramp but he pushes past it, especially when he feels Stiles crowd that much closer to him like he wants to hide.

“Werewolves are real,” Stiles whispers, and his voice carries a childish delight that makes him sound even younger than he is.

Peter holds him a little tighter and prays like he’s never prayed before that they’ll both survive this.

 

* * *

 

The fourth time Peter is awake when a hunter comes by with the food, he finds out how Stiles got those bruises on his face.

He smells it the moment the door swings open and one of their captors stomps their way in.  This one is angry, unsettled and agitated and full of pent-up anger because of it, and that can never be a good combination.

Peter’s still faking unconsciousness.  Stiles argued for it, and Peter agreed.  It was a good idea, and if he manages to heal enough, they’ll have the element of surprise too.  And since nothing bad has happened each time a hunter drops off their bread and water, Peter goes along with it.

Not today.  He pretends anyway, eyes shut, lying limp on the floor, but he half-expects the blow before it even happens.

Except it’s not him that the hunter takes his frustration on, and Peter should’ve expected that too, if only because Stiles’ scent has soured with terrified recognition before the hunter is even all the way in.

He doesn’t move though, not an inch from where he’s crouching in front of Peter.

“You stupid brat!  You just had to stick your nose into it!”  The man spits out, tray clattering to the ground without care.  “This damn job would’ve been clean and quick and finished weeks ago if it wasn’t for you!  Now the fucking police has our faces plastered all over the news when they should be thanking us on bended knee for giving those animals what they deserved!”

The first crack of skin on skin wrenches a choked cry out of Stiles and knocks him clean off his feet.  The second is a kick that propels Stiles on top of Peter and into the wall with a dull thud.

There is no third because Peter is bundling Stiles behind him and lunging for the hunter’s legs with fangs and claws and a shattering roar that reverberates off the stone walls before any of them can so much as blink.

He doesn’t even think about trying to stand.  He doesn’t need to.  There’s a lot of screaming after that.

Peter ends up ripping through the femoral artery in the hunter’s left thigh and shredding his belly to the point of almost no return.  At the very least, his claws nick the man’s intestines.  The only reason the hunter doesn’t bleed out and die – at least not yet – is because another hunter, not the one that usually drops off their food trays, comes storming down the steps, shouting and levelling a gun at Peter, one that’s no doubt filled with wolfsbane bullets, but then Stiles is there, throwing himself _at the second hunter for fuck’s sake_ and – in reedy desperate tones as he clings to the bastard and uses his own body to block the muzzle of the gun – begging him not to shoot, and at least that one must have a soft spot for kids, inasmuch as anyone who thinks kidnapping children and setting innocent people on fire can have a soft spot at all, and in the end, the man shoves Stiles away but refrains from shooting Peter and drags his partner out of the room instead, leaving a smear of blood behind on the concrete and a ringing silence in their wake once the door slams shut behind them.

Peter collapses onto his back, chest heaving as the adrenaline and rage and panic that gave him just enough mobility to get him onto his hands and knees earlier leaves him with a crippling agony seizing every last nerve in his body.  Yet all he can think about is the boy who crawls over from where he landed and throws his arms around Peter’s torso, stifling whimpers in the hollow of Peter’s neck and shaking like a leaf in the wind, like he’s about to unravel at the seams and blow away himself.

Peter grits his teeth and _makes_ his arms move, slinging them around Stiles and purring somewhat roughly in an attempt to soothe the boy, and it seems to work.  It takes several distressing minutes, but eventually, Stiles does calm down, with only the occasional hiccup to give him away.

When Stiles finally lifts his head, Peter manages to get a good look at his face.  There’s already another bruise blossoming over his left cheek, fresh blue-purple blotched over the sickly green-yellow of the bruises that were already there.  Stiles has a hand to his ribs too so Peter guesses that’s where the hunter kicked him.

An unbidden growl wells up in his throat.  Stiles swallows, eyes wet but cheeks absent of tear tracks, and after rearranging his limbs and tucking himself next to Peter in his usual spot instead, he only puts his head back down on Peter’s shoulder, fingers grazing apologies over Peter’s bandaged injuries.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” He mumbles.

Maybe not.  Frankly, Peter doesn’t give a shit.  His wolf is baying for the blood of every hunter who’s ever so much as looked at Stiles.

They stay like that for an indeterminable amount of time.  Peter’s on the verge of passing out but he isn’t willing to leave Stiles alone.

“Peter?”  Stiles speaks up again, muffled against Peter’s shoulder.

Peter grunts something vaguely enquiring.  He feels Stiles wriggle around a bit before a tinny clink of metal reaches his ears.  Stiles’ hand comes up, and Peter stares for a very long, very dumbfounded moment at the small ring of keys and a car remote hanging off Stiles’ forefinger.

“I stole ’em just now,” Stiles mutters, tilting his head just enough to peer uncertainly up at Peter with one solemn eye.  “I wasn’t actually planning to but they were _right there_ -”

He stops, probably because Peter’s shoulders are shaking with the laughter building up inside of him despite the pain he’s in.

“You amazing, clever boy,” Peter finally gasps out, because even half out of his mind with fear and trying to protect Peter, this crazy kid is still with it enough to turn his reckless attack into a bluff in order to hide what he really wants while continuing to portray himself as a scared little human child.  And he _is_ a scared little human child, but he’s also whip-smart and cunning as a fox, possessing a mind that thrives under pressure and doesn’t once overlook an opportunity when it’s there for the taking.

The kind of calculating and wily and wonderfully pragmatic that Peter prides himself on.  A survivor to the core.

This boy is going to grow up terrifying.

Stiles’ subsequent smile lights up his whole face, even if only for a few seconds.  He pockets the keys again before settling back down.  “But we’re still stuck in here. That door only unlocks from the outside so if we can’t get out…”

“’at door is ’e only one that opens f’r us,” Peter corrects him.  “’ey’ll need t’open it ’gain sooner ’r later, an’ then I c’n take care o’ the res’.”

He flexes his hands.  He can feel the blood and gore crusting in the lines of his skin already.  It’s probably gotten onto Stiles too since he forgot earlier but they’re both in such dire need of a shower or three at this point that it makes little difference.

He needs to heal more than ever now.  Chances are that hunter’s dead by now.  There are at least three of them, and the other two might want to avenge their friend.  Peter didn’t miss the mention of the police going to the media with their faces, which has to mean that Cora managed to get to the police station safely, if only because she was hiding near Stiles when Stiles was captured, wasn’t she?  So she has to be the only person capable of giving a rough description of the people who set the fire and then abducted her friend and uncle.

And if that’s the case, the remaining hunters could decide any day now that Stiles and Peter really aren’t worth sticking around for compared to, say, fleeing the country.

He flexes his hands again.  He has no intention of waiting around for that to happen.

 

* * *

 

He does eventually need to sleep, but he asks Stiles to wake him up in a few hours.  Neither of them has a watch on them, and the contents of Stiles’ backpack doesn’t include a phone (“Jackson broke it,” Stiles mutters, expression set somewhere between embarrassment and vengeful resentment.), so Peter just tells him to make an estimate.  Then he drops off, probably more unconscious than actually asleep, at least at first.

Stiles wakes him up as promised, though he probably knowingly waited longer than just a few hours.  There’s a worried furrow to his brow, one that only deepens when Peter takes a few deep breaths and locks his jaw before hauling himself into a sitting position with only a drawn-out hiss squeezing its way past his teeth.

“Peter-” Stiles begins to protest.

“Help me up,” Peter growls, bracing one clawed hand against the wall.

For a second, Stiles looks like he’ll refuse, but then – with a sigh that sounds awfully adult-like – the boy ducks under Peter’s other arm and slowly levers Peter to his feet.  He staggers a little, which isn’t unexpected, and Peter tries to transfer most of his weight to the wall before he fell on Stiles or something.

“Now what?”  Stiles asks, eyeing Peter like he thinks Peter will keel over any minute now.

He may not be that far off.

Peter inhales, exhales, inhales again, exhales again.  He’s dizzy with the pain but it’s- it’s manageable.  Still, if a hunter comes down again, they’ll be a lot more cautious now that they know Peter’s no longer more or less comatose.

He attempts a step forward, pushing away from the wall, only to wobble like a newborn foal before tipping sideways and almost hitting the ground again if Stiles wasn’t already there, propping Peter up with a muttered “oof,” knees almost buckling himself.

Peter hastily leans back against the wall again, panting and already out of breath.  Yeah, no, there’s no way he can fight like this.

He spares a few minutes to catch his breath, resting his head against the stone behind him and shutting his eyes.  Then he glances down at himself, grimacing at the various bandages, the blood, the burns.  He glances at Stiles, who’s shifting anxiously from foot to foot and chewing on his bottom lip, but he remains silent as he waits for Peter to make up his mind.  The newest bruise – Peter realizes – is by far the worst, the skin having split open and is still oozing blood, although Stiles has carelessly wiped at it every so often, leaving smudges of red along his cheek and ear and into his hair.

There isn’t much left of the medical supplies, Peter suddenly recalls, and he wants to scold the boy for being stupid.  He’ll heal; he’s a werewolf.  If infection sets in in either of their wounds, Stiles is the one who’ll pay for it more.

But he doesn’t want to waste breath arguing because he already knows exactly how stubborn Stiles can get.  He’s like that with the food, with the water, always giving more to Peter.  Honestly, Peter hasn’t the faintest idea why the boy is so goddamn protective of him.  He wishes he wouldn’t be.

( _He can’t put into words how happy it makes him anyway because he knows Stiles could’ve just as easily tossed him under the bus and screamed blue murder about monsters the moment he realized Peter was healing faster than regular humans do, winning the hunters over enough that they might even let Stiles go.  And if that thought’s occurred to Peter, than it’s definitely occurred to Stiles.  But Stiles is still here, helping him when Peter’s own family and so-called Alpha couldn’t give two fucks about Peter getting abducted by their Pack’s killers, and if nothing else, it makes Peter equally protective of this obstinate, brilliant child._ )

He focuses on Stiles now, on the fledgling pack bond between them that’s fast becoming something stronger.  He closes his eyes again, reaches for the wolf inside him, in his blood, in his bones, an intrinsic part of his very soul, and the shift comes as easy as breathing.

He hears Stiles gasp, and when he opens his eyes again, he’s on four legs and covered in fur, with a boy hovering in front of him, brimming with excitement.

Peter huffs a laugh.  The pain of his injuries is a little more muted this way even though tufts of his fur are missing where the worst of his burns are, and he would’ve shifted sooner but – near fatally injured, newly packless, and about as malnourished as possible after several weeks in captivity – he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been _able_ to, not then.

“Your ears are cute!”  Stiles announces brightly.

Peter blinks before baring his teeth indignantly.  His ears aren’t _cute_.

But Stiles giggles and reaches out, and Peter has to admit, the boy gives good ear-scritches.

They’re almost equal in height like this, even with Stiles standing up, so it’s easy to lay his muzzle on Stiles’ shoulder, whuffing into the boy’s neck until Stiles complains about being ticklish but hugs him around the neck anyway.

“What’s the plan then?”  Stiles whispers into Peter’s fur.

Peter stiffens, rolling his eyes at himself for not telling Stiles first before shifting.  Shifting back is going to be a pain.  Literally.

But Stiles pulls back, wiping at the cut on his cheek again until Peter growls nudges that hand away with his nose.

“Okay,” Stiles nods decisively, rocking back on his heels.  “We wait until they come by with the food again, and then you attack?  Which will bring the others running, unless you can kill the first one before he makes any noise.”

He shoots Peter a questioning look.  Peter nods.  He can do it.  It’s interesting though, how completely do-not-give-a-damn Stiles is about killing their captors.  Then again, all things considered, it may not be that much of a surprise, even from the mouth of a ten-year-old.  Possibly especially from the mouth of a ten-year-old, right up until they actually witness the killing.  Still, Stiles is the practical sort.  And he didn’t so much as blink after Peter ripped a chunk out of that hunter.

Stiles frowns.  “Right.  But-” He sidles closer, and his scent turns apprehensive.  “Their bullets will hurt you.  You can’t get shot.”

Peter nuzzles the boy before twining around him like a very large cat until he relaxes a little and buries his face in Peter’s scruff.

“I just-” Stiles’ arms tighten around him.  “I want us to escape.  Both of us.  Together.  I- My dad can’t cook.  He won’t eat healthy without me.  And he’s already lost my mom.  He- I have to be around to take care of him.  And you.  Cora’s waiting for you, right?  She must be so worried.  She told me you’re her favourite uncle and you help her play pranks and you drive her to school whenever you can and you’re the only one who goes to most of her track and field competitions and you sneak her extra dessert on weekends.  So she has to be really worried, and that means we _both_ have people waiting for us so _both of us_ need to escape!”  He lifts his face from Peter’s fur, and his eyes are three shades away from Beta gold and blazing with lupine ferocity.  “Understand?”

Peter meets his gaze and lets his eyes glow blue.  Maybe Cora is waiting for him, maybe she’s already left with Laura.  But _you’re her favourite_ _uncle_ strikes a chord, and even if it didn’t, Stiles is enough of a reason for Peter to do his best to make sure they both survive.

Even if Stiles doesn’t know it.

“Okay,” Stiles nods, looking relieved, as if the very idea of him escaping without Peter is what scares him most about this entire situation.  “Okay.  Then, after you kill the first hunter, I’ll go up first-” Peter growls.  Stiles crosses his arms and doesn’t budge an inch.  “-and break any mountain ash lines along the way.  Probably best if I check where the other hunters are first too.  Don’t look at me like that, you know I’m right.  They won’t shoot first if they see me.”

 _Hopefully_ , his face says.  Peter is _not_ reassured.  He hates that the plan has merit.

“We’ll try to get out as fast as we can,” Stiles finishes.  “No going back to make sure they’re all dead or whatever.  We get out, steal a car, and drive for the nearest-” He shrugs.  “-wherever.”

Peter sighs but grudgingly nods.  It’s as good a plan as they can manage at this point.  And if Peter creeps out on Stiles’ heels to make sure the boy didn’t die in a hail of bullets, well, it’s only to be expected.  Not his fault if Stiles doesn’t realize that.

 

* * *

 

Peter spends the next however many hours pacing the room, getting used to walking again, stretching out sore muscles.  He still hurts pretty much _everywhere_ , but at least he’s no longer completely useless.  He misses the outdoors, the wind, the moon.  He does his best not to think about his lost pack.  Stiles is here to anchor him, and that makes it easier.

The boy is asleep, a bit fitfully, as always, but he doesn’t stir even when Peter goes over to check on him every once in a while.

He looks exhausted, and he’s far too thin.  A single bottle of water and one piece of bread between them per day isn’t anywhere near enough, and yesterday’s bread went to the cockroach infestation after the hunter tossed the tray down the way he did.  And Peter doubts Stiles slept much when he was basically making sure Peter’s injuries didn’t kill him.  The boy doesn’t sleep much even _now_.

So he waits as long as he can, until he’s fairly certain meal drop is drawing near.  He noses at Stiles until the boy wakes with a start, instinctively scanning his surroundings and only calming down once he recognizes Peter.

They share the last bottle of water, and then Stiles packs away the liquor bottle into his backpack before slinging it onto his back, pulling on his sweater over that so there would be less chance of it making any noise when he’s moving around.  He also takes off his shoes and leaves them in a corner.  They’re beyond saving anyway, and socks make less noise overall.  Once that’s done, Stiles sits back down while Peter settles in the shadows near the door, ready to pounce on the first hapless hunter to walk into the room.

They wait.

 

* * *

 

As the pack enforcer, sometimes, Peter had to deal with enemies before they became threats to the pack.  And sometimes, that meant killing them in the dark, from behind, down an alleyway, when they least expected it, underhanded and dirty, and then making them disappear or making it look like an accident.

He would’ve made an excellent professional assassin in another life.

In both too brief and too interminable a time, a pair of boots thump outside, the locks click open, and the door swings inward.

The hunter – the one that usually feeds them – strides in, tray in one hand, gun in the other like he thinks that’s enough of a deterrent against a werewolf.  He sees Stiles but – for several seconds – doesn’t notice the fact that Peter is no longer lying behind him per usual.

Those seconds seal his fate.

The moment the hunter walks right past Peter, Peter surges forward and leaps into the air, front paws crashing into the man’s back as his jaws yawn open and _snaps_ , fangs crunching deep and lethal through his prey’s neck and spine, blood gushing like a faucet.

You can’t scream without a voice box.  And as the tray drops from numb fingers, Stiles is already there to catch it.

They leave the corpse cooling on the concrete floor.

Stiles tiptoes out first, barely breathing as he pokes his head out the door before disappearing through it.  Peter practically vibrates in place for all of three seconds before slinking out after his boy.

There’s not much of a hallway outside, just a few feet of more concrete with a broken line of mountain ash scattered across it before it merges onto a flight of stairs leading up.  Stiles is already at the top, and Peter swiftly skulks up after him on silent paws.

Peter doesn’t brush right up against Stiles for fear of startling him, but Stiles just reaches back to rest a hand on Peter’s head for a moment without even looking, cautiously peering around a corner instead before inching forward further.  A few seconds later, he tosses a hard look at Peter over his shoulder, and reluctantly, Peter stays put while Stiles slips away to scout out the rest of the building.

He manages an increasingly twitchy sixteen seconds before he’s on his feet again.  Possibly fortunately for everyone involved, Stiles is back before he can take more than a step.

His boy holds up two fingers before dropping one and nodding, and then dropping that finger and raising the other again, this time shaking his head.

Two hunters then, one they know, one they don’t.  Peter still can’t hear any heartbeats aside from his own and Stiles’ so he guesses that they’re wearing talismans.  The one he just killed probably was too, now that they know the resident werewolf is awake.  Not that it helped that hunter.  Not that it will help these ones either.

Stiles taps his first finger against his jeans where the keys he pickpocketed yesterday are stored and nods again.

Good.  The one Peter took out yesterday must be dead, that or they risked taking him to the hospital.  Either way, he won’t be a problem.

Stiles then turns and begins sketching out a crude map of the place.  Peter watches carefully, noting four rooms, with the two hunters currently sitting in the one on the far right of the building.  Probably the kitchen, or the sitting room.  No backdoor, as far as Stiles could tell, with the only exit somewhere past the hunters.

Peter nods.  He puts a paw on Stiles’ knee, and Stiles bites his lip but nods, staying on the stairs.  Peter lopes off.

He takes the first of two hunters – the one he doesn’t recognize – off-guard, tearing his throat out before either one knows he’s even there.  The other hunter jumps to his feet, terror and fury in his shocked wordless yell even as he reaches for his gun.

Peter’s over the table and taking the hunter’s right arm off before he can, but a knife swings through his blind spot and into his peripheral vision, and he _knows_ he won’t be able to twist away in time.

It doesn’t touch him.

A gun discharges from behind him, and a bullet wings its way past Peter’s ear and finds its home in the hunter’s skull.

Bullseye.  A perfect shot to the head.  The man crumples like a sack of potatoes.

Peter spins around, eyes widening when he sees Stiles standing there, gun in hand, steady as a rock even with his features pinched white.

“Let’s go!”  Stiles whisper-shouts, and they both scramble for the front door.  Stiles grabs a jacket from a hook on the wall, and then he’s fumbling for the keys because the door has three keyholes installed on the inside.  Three different keys are needed before Stiles can get the door open, and then – after breaking another line of mountain ash on the doorstep – Peter cocks his head for any heartbeats (none) and Stiles creeps out for a look around.

There’s sunlight, outside.  Mid-afternoon perhaps, on a cool spring day.

Fresh air has never tasted so sweet.  Freedom tastes even sweeter.

There doesn’t seem to be anybody else around, and a second with the car remote gains them their getaway car, a nondescript silver Honda parked in the driveway, alongside a blue Nissan, while a black van sits on the dirt road out front.

“I can’t drive!”  Stiles reminds him as they hurry towards the car.  “You need to- to change back.”

Damn.  Peter forgot that.  But he doesn’t waste time, and after flinching through the shift, he’s naked and swaying on his feet as Stiles helps him into the car, drapes the jacket around his shoulders, passes him the keys, and then rounds the car to the passenger side.

Peter loathes the smells clinging to the jacket but shrugs into it anyway, waiting just long enough for Stiles to close the door before he’s pulling out of the driveway.

He has no idea where they are.  Stiles doesn’t either.  Thank God for GPS, which this car is equipped with.

Closest town – Atherton, in San Mateo County, three hours away. And they even have half a wine bottle of water between them to keep them going.

 

* * *

 

Peter drives them right past the first gas station they come across even though it’s tempting to stop immediately and ask for the use of a phone.  He doesn’t put it past the hunters to have bribed the handful of establishments closest to that bunker house or even planted one of their own in each of them to keep an eye out, and indeed, when Peter looks in the rear-view mirror just before he takes the next left, a man steps out of the gas station and frowns after them, something about his balanced stance setting off alarm bells in Peter’s head, and Peter’s never been one to ignore them.

Still, their captors can’t bribe an entire town so Peter deems the third diner that the GPS directs them to safe enough to finally call for help.

The brunette waitress screams when they first walk in, and while it’s a perfectly understandable reaction – what with both of them looking like torture victims, not to mention the jacket Peter is wearing certainly does not cover his dick in any way – Peter almost rips her throat all the same, if for no other reason than because Stiles skitters even closer to Peter at the piercing noise, all the while looking around like he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for their captors to pop out of nowhere and force them right back into that bunker.

“Phone,” Peter grounds out instead, sticking to pertinent facts.  “We were abducted.  You must’ve seen our faces on TV.  _We need a phone_.  _Now!_ ”

He hears the telltale click of a phone camera going off from somewhere on his left, and then another from his right, and then another, and then another, and it almost sends his wolf into a feral rage at the sheer _callous audacity_ of the human race.  Instead, he pulls Stiles even closer, shielding the boy with his body.  If pictures are going to be plastered all over Facebook and Tumblr and wherever else, then at least they won’t get Stiles.

The waitress seems frozen to the spot but another waitress, a little older, blonde, and just coming out from the back to see what the commotion is about in time to hear the tail-end of Peter’s demand, hurries over to them, pulling out her cell along the way.

“Here,” She offers with tentative sympathy, and Peter snatches it out of her hand as soon as she’s close enough.  He doesn’t even realize his hands are trembling until he’s trying to dial 911.

“Thank you, Miss,” Stiles pipes up in a tiny voice that quavers on each word, and the waitress’ face softens even more.

Peter – busy with giving the 911 operator the relevant information of their whereabouts in clipped, cold tones – doesn’t bother telling her that Stiles is made of sterner stuff, not when his boy plays her like a fiddle, getting them some privacy in the back of the diner and even prompting the woman to get whoever’s in charge of the place to close early and kick all the customers out as they wait for the ambulance and police to arrive.

 

* * *

 

Four hours later, they’re relatively clean, fed, and settled in the same hospital room because Stiles pitched the mother of all temper tantrums when the doctors tried to separate them, and Peter stabbed a nurse with an IV needle when she tried to take Stiles out of his line of sight.

Someone tells them that Stiles’ father is on his way.  Someone else tells them that their kidnappers were found in the bunker house, dead from what looked to be animal attacks, even the one Peter claims to have shot while he and Stiles were escaping.

The cops are mystified but none are particularly sorry, and they did manage to corner the guy at the gas station before he did a runner.  Peter and Stiles have been missing for just shy of a month – twenty-nine days and five hours to be exact.  The media has made a big deal out of it, especially since their kidnappers were the same people who burned down a house full of adults and children both, a respected family in an old town.  Stiles especially has garnered a lot of sympathy, and the entire country is calling for justice.

Stiles and Peter watch it all on the TV in their room, both of them weary to the bone but neither of them willing to fall asleep, even with guards posted at the door.

Nevertheless, sleep does eventually pull them under, twice as effective with aid from the drugs they were given to numb the pain of their injuries, although the ones in Peter’s system are already dissipating.

Stiles falls asleep first, curled into a ball beside Peter, the werewolf’s arm coiled protectively around him.  Peter follows ( _as in everything, he thinks_ ), lying on his side, facing the only entrance into the room.

The last things burned into the dark of his eyelids are the photos of Kate and Gerard Argent, and the knowledge that – in light of multiple accounts of arson and murder all around the _world_ that can be traced directly back to them – two arrest warrants have been issued with their names on it, resulting in a nationwide manhunt that’s slowly but surely running the daughter and father duo to ground.

It’s just a matter of time.

But in this moment, far more important are the comfortable breeze drifting in through the open window and Stiles’ warm weight in his arms.

Stiles is safe and here with him, they’re both free and they'll remain that way if Peter has to kill some more to ensure it, and at least for now, he is content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Alternate Ending/Cut Extended Version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this as part of the original but then decided to cut it off where I did because I didn't like this bit and I was running out of juice for this prompt anyway. I'll post it here but.. yeah, I don't really like it. It's basically just a rough draft that I scrapped.

 

Peter wakes to the sound of Stiles’ frightened cry and the sight of him lashing out, and he almost launches himself at the uniform-clad man who smells of alcohol and coffee, and looks like he’s been slapped, not protesting when the nurse and one of the guards at the door usher him away from Stiles.

From the looks of it, he was in the process of picking Stiles up and carrying him over to the other bed in the room when Stiles woke up, and of course, he didn’t recognize anything beyond _someone is taking him away from Peter_ and promptly descended into a panic attack.

Peter can’t believe he slept through it.

“Stiles,” Peter catches one of Stiles’ flailing hands and presses it to his heart before leaning their foreheads together.  “Stiles, _breathe_.  Come on, breathe with me.”

He takes steady, exaggerated breaths until Stiles catches on, and gradually, his boy’s heartbeat subsides into a rhythm that’s no longer threatening to choke him.  Awareness returns to his eyes, followed by horror and guilt that Peter almost snarls at.

“Dad!”  Stiles says, reaching for the newcomer, who looks relieved and quickly shuffles forward again to take his son’s hand.

Peter is pleased to note that Stiles’ other hand doesn’t let go of his hospital gown, and it’s enough to appease some of the hostility he feels towards that man.

The Sheriff.

Stiles’ father.

And now that his mind is a little clearer, Peter does actually recognize him.  He’s seen John Stilinski from afar a handful of times since the man was first voted into office a few years back, shortly before his wife died, although Talia was the one who spoke to him on a few occasions due to business.

Peter watches him and Stiles hug now, Stiles babbling reassurances, the Sheriff responding in kind.  He doesn’t care one whit whether or not someone might think him rude for not giving their reunion even a semblance of privacy.  He meets the Sheriff’s gaze without blinking when the man looks at him, expression torn between guarded suspicion and gratitude.

“Thank you for saving my son,” Stilinski finally says.  “He’s- He’s all I have left.”

Peter nods tightly.  “Stiles saved me first.  And then we saved each other.  As unfortunate as it was for him, I was lucky he was there to help me.”

Stiles blushes, tipping a shy smile at him like he’s still surprised after all this time that Peter holds him in such high regard.

The Sheriff only gives him another nod and a strange look, but Peter can’t really pick up anything particular in his scent, especially with the smell of whiskey lingering so… _permanently_ , even coupled with the coffee.

“Stiles,” Stilinski turns back to his son, gesturing at the empty bed.  “Why don’t you move into your own bed?  You don’t want to bother Mr. Hale, do you?”

Peter has to force down a guttural snarl before it erupts from his throat, even as his hand curls possessively around Stiles’ arm.  At the same time, Stiles straightens indignantly, protesting, “Peter’s fine with me here!”

The guarded suspicion returns.  Peter meets it with something a hair away from a glare and doesn’t back down.

Maybe it is strange, to an outsider.  But Stiles is Pack now, Peter’s only Pack, someone who didn’t leave him behind even when given a good few chances to do so, even when it would’ve been _safer_ for Stiles to do so, and that means no one – not hunters, not doctors, not this drunk who looks like he’s been surviving on coffee, takeout, and alcohol – is going to take Stiles away from him.

(He doesn’t want to even think about the icy panic twisting his gut at the mere thought of losing Stiles in any way.)

“Stiles-” The Sheriff sighs, already sounding long-suffering like he’s used to his son being difficult.

“He stays,” Peter cuts in with only the slightest hint of a growl that probably doesn’t sound anything close to human.  “He stays if he wants to.”

“I’m staying,” Stiles parrots, bristling and not relinquishing his grip on Peter’s gown.  “Dad, it’s fine.  Peter doesn’t mind.”

The Sheriff clearly doesn’t approve, and he opens his mouth to argue, but the nurse steps in at that moment, voice mild but firm, “Sir, they have been through quite an ordeal together.  It isn’t uncommon for victims who have shared the same experience to wish to remain close in the aftermath, and the lack of stress from being separated will only help them heal.”

In the face of that, the Sheriff can’t really continue with his objections, and he deflates soon enough when Stiles adds his pleas to it.

There is, Peter thinks, something wrong with that man.  Stilinski tells them that he’s one of the people spearheading the case against the Argents, and Peter is glad for that, if only because the fire that killed most of his family won’t be dismissed as a measly accident.

But still, Peter thinks as he watches the Sheriff take his leave after Stiles shoos him out with reminders to eat his greens and get an early night’s rest, there is something wrong with that man.

 

* * *

 

“He’s my dad,” Stiles whispers in the dead of night, the two of them enjoying the breeze coming in from the open window, Peter providing enough warmth for both of them.

Peter hums an acknowledgement and thinks he might understand.

When the Sheriff visits again the next day but only stays for half an hour or so before he gets a phone call summoning him in to work, Peter isn’t surprised when Stiles instructs the man to at least pick up a sandwich for lunch and not just consume coffee all day.

Peter understands.  He just doesn’t like it.

 

* * *

 

A solid week passes before the doctors reluctantly call a cab for them to transport them back to Beacon Hills.  It’s a long ride, and there are reporters lying in wait for them when they turn onto Stiles’ street, all of them congregated on the goddamn front lawn.

Peter calls the cops with vindictive glee.  Those who manage to snap off a few shots in their direction anyway, well, Peter makes sure to memorize their faces.  He’s a lawyer who enjoys making his opponents cry, and he’ll be sure to sue the pants off anyone who manages to stick a picture of him or Stiles in the paper.

Stiles offers him the guest bedroom.  Peter makes dinner.  They go to sleep in the same bed, the guest one because Stiles’ bed is too small for both of them to fit comfortably.

Peter wakes with nightmares locked behind his teeth.  Stiles wakes in the throes of another panic attack.

They calm each other down.  They cope.

Peter organizes the burial and funeral for his dead family members.  He doesn’t bother informing Laura or Derek or even Cora, who calls from a payphone and tells him she’s alright, she’s with her siblings, and she’s so glad Peter and Stiles are alright too.  Peter in turn thanks her for going to the police before telling her to take care of herself.

He doesn’t have their new phone numbers anyway, and as easy as it would be for him to find them, he doesn’t care enough to make the effort.

 

* * *

 

Even after the Sheriff finally comes home, announcing news that they’ve already seen on TV about Kate and Gerard’s arrest and long overdue trial, Peter stays.

Stilinski puts up a token protest in the form of disapproving frowns in Stiles’ direction and wary looks in Peter’s, but when it comes down to it, the man spends at least four nights out of seven at the station, can’t seem to _stand_ sleeping in the house most of the time, can’t even seem to stand the sight of his own son on occasion, and after witnessing Peter cooking and shopping for the household, Stilinski doesn’t say anything more about it.

The first time _Peter_ witnesses the Sheriff passing out on the couch with two empty bottles of whiskey on the floor and a third half-empty in the loose grip of his hand, he helps Stiles clear away the bottles before borrowing Stiles’ laptop.

He buys an apartment for two before the week is out.  From that point on, the place becomes home to Stiles as much as Peter.

They spend their first full moon after their kidnapping in the Preserve, Peter playfully chasing Stiles until the boy is breathless with laughter and has to be carried home.

 

* * *

 

**[Eight Years Later]**

Peter finally kisses him for the very first time.

 


End file.
